


pouf-pouf

by emjee (MerryHeart)



Series: Nature Points the Way, So Much Left to Say [1]
Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Belle and Plumette BrOTP, F/M, I've got a thing for boys in makeup okay, eighteenth century cosmetics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 18:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10497057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerryHeart/pseuds/emjee
Summary: "Not for the first time, Belle found herself curious about the dusting of gold Plumette so often applied to the corner of her eyes and the swell of her cheeks. 'Actually. I did have one question. How do you…' She touched the side of her face to indicate where Plumette’s skin shimmered.'How do I do my makeup?''Yes.'Plumette shook her head in amazement. 'There were really no other girls in Villeneuve?'"In which Belle makes a friend and learns more about her fiance.





	1. Chapter 1

The day of her engagement ball was only the second time Belle had required the help of another person to dress.

While Madame de Garderobe had insisted on supervising Belle as she put on her yellow gown that fateful night in June, Plumette had declared herself in charge of engagement preparations come July.

“She must be _à_ _la mode_!” Madame de Garderobe reminded Plumette the first time she whisked Belle away to plan her hair and wardrobe.

“ _Oui_ , madame!” Plumette sang, waving a hand airily as she ushered Belle into the library. When she shut the door and caught sight of Belle’s face, she laughed and said, “Don’t you worry, mademoiselle. Madame de Garderobe has followed fashion religiously since she was Cadenza’s youngest student. Soon you will be  _une princesse_. It is you who sets the fashion now.”

“I’m really not sure that’s necessary,” Belle said, following as Plumette made her way to a shelf on the second level and started pulling out volumes bound with paper and string. “What are those?”

“Some older sketches and fashion plates. And the newest fashions from Versailles. I wrote and had them sent as soon as I regained the use of my hands.” The corner of her mouth dimpled in a smile that told Belle she was quite pleased with herself. “To save _monsieur le prince_ from having to admit he’s still rather enamored with fashion.”

Belle blinked. “I’m sorry, I’m still stuck on the fact that you knew exactly where to find something in this library.” Adam’s peculiar filing system was a source of minor frustration and endless teasing. She expected this would not change after they married.

Plumette laughed. “Who do you think dusts in here? I know it all by heart now. Oh, it was so much work over the years to keep this place clean. The master hadn’t been in here for ages until you arrived.”

“I didn’t realize.”

“Yes, well, you are here now, that is what is most important.” Plumette seated herself at one of the library tables and nodded for Belle to join her. “And you are going to be beautiful at your engagement ball, that is what is next important. Not,” she added as she opened the newest volume, “that you are not already lovely.”

Belle ducked her head, not knowing what to say.

“If you’ll forgive me, mademoiselle…”

“Belle. Please call me Belle.”

“If it’s not too bold of me to ask—Belle—did you know many girls your own age in Villeneuve.”

“Define ‘know’.”

“Did you have friends?”

It was a question that gave Belle pause. Of course she had friends. She had every character in the ten books Père Robert let her borrow. She had her father.

Plumette caught her eye. “Friends of a feminine persuasion. To walk and talk and share secrets with.”

Belle shook her head. “None of the girls I knew wanted to talk about the things I did. And Villeneuve is tiny. No one has secrets there.”

Plumette pursed her lips and gave a prim little “Hm. Their loss, I suppose. Mademoiselle Belle—” She caught Belle glaring at her and glared right back. “It’s a compromise. I know you are madly in love with _monsieur le prince_ and you have your father and Mrs. Potts has taken you under her wing, but if you decide…”

“If I decide I’d like a friend of the feminine persuasion.”

“That’s right.”

Belle moved her chair closer to Plumette and leaned to look at the fashion plates she held open. “I’ve decided I’d like that very much.”

 

Three weeks later, Belle was seated at her vanity, dressed in a lovely floral creation Plumette had dreamed up.

“A summer engagement requires roses!” she had insisted, and though Madame de Garderobe had complained that the silhouette was hardly in style, Plumette keenly respected Belle’s desire to be able to move through a doorway without turning sideways.

“I’m so pleased with the way those sleeves turned out,” Plumette said as she tucked white flowers into Belle’s pinned up braids.

“And the skirt moves so beautifully.”

“ _Mais bien s_ _ûr_! What is the point of dancing if not to show off a pretty dress? There!” she declared triumphantly, securing the final flower. “You shouldn’t have to worry about anything falling loose during the gavotte.”

“I should think not. I think I have more pins in my hair today than I’ve seen in my entire life before this.”

“I believe your life before this also involved considerably fewer gavottes.”

“That is unfortunately true.”

Plumette surveyed her handiwork one last time, a bright smile spreading across her face. “Will there be anything else?”

“No, I think that will be—” Belle’s gaze flickered upward, and she caught sight of Plumette’s face in the mirror. Not for the first time, she found herself curious about the dusting of gold Plumette so often applied to the corner of her eyes and the swell of her cheeks. “Actually. I did have one question. How do you…” She touched the side of her face to indicate where Plumette’s skin shimmered.

“How do I do my makeup?”

“Yes.”

Plumette shook her head in amazement. “There were really no other girls in Villeneuve?”

“Oh, there were other girls,” Belle said, pleating the fabric of her skirt between her fingers. “And they wore makeup. But I didn’t understand them, and they didn’t want anything to do with me.”

Plumette took Belle by the shoulders and gently turned her away from the mirror. When Belle met her gaze, she said, “They are idiots for not wanting to know you. And you are the one who saved us all and is going to marry a prince. So. Put your shoes on.” Belle slid her feet into dancing shoes embroidered to match her dress. “Stand up. Spin.”

As Belle twirled slowly for her lady’s maid, she thought about the life she’d spent wearing country clothes. She still loved their practicality, the freedom they gave her, but there was something about a new dancing dress, she’d learned in her time at the castle. Forget about being a future _princesse_ —she felt like the Queen of France.

“ _C’est parfait_ ,” Plumette pronounced. “And fear not—I shall teach you all of my tricks later, if you like, but not when there’s guests arriving downstairs.”

“I should like that.”

“Off you go, then.”

 

Hours later, Belle found herself being pulled by her fiancé into an alcove off the ballroom.

“How are you doing?” Adam asked, bending to touch his forehead to hers.

“I’ve danced every dance and my feet positively ache. I’m not sure I’ve ever been happier.”

“You’ve come a long way from stepping on your father’s toes.”

“That’s exactly what he said during the last dance.”

Adam slid a hand around Belle’s waist and held her close. “I think I was too stunned to say it when I first saw you—you look magnificent.”

“Thank you. Madame de Garderobe has come around to the dress, I think, but she said I need rouge.”

“Nonsense. If you want, I suppose, but I hardly think you need it.” He swept a thumb lightly up her cheekbone, then down her jaw. “Well…perhaps the lips could use some color, but you don’t need rouge for that.” He tilted her face toward his and their mouths met, gently at first, then firmer, exploring, and Belle felt her hands float up to rest on Adam’s shoulders, gripping them harder as he sucked her lower lip between his teeth. When they both came up for air, Adam rubbed his thumb across Belle’s lips, which she was sure were red and swollen. “Much better.”

They smiled at each other, too happy for words, before Belle said, “You know, I’ve read so much about alcoves off of ballrooms and I’ve always wondered what they were for.”

“Exactly this purpose.”

 

A week later, Plumette bustled into Belle’s room before dinner bearing a tray full of pots, jars, and brushes, which she set on Belle’s vanity with a flourish and a triumphant “ _Voil_ _à_!”

Belle eyed the tray warily. “This all looks very complicated.”

“Lucky for you,” said Plumette as she picked up a brush and tapped the end against her chin, “you are working with an expert. Now.” She put a finger under Belle’s chin and turned her face first to one side, then the other. “Pale is fashionable, and you’ve spent quite a bit of time in the sun. Rice powder would hide that, if you wanted.”

“You don’t powder your face,” Belle remarked.

Plumette’s mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “Indeed not. And you know why?”

“Because privileging skin tones is absurd?”

Plumette tapped Belle’s nose with the tip of the brush. “ _Exactement._ It is the one form of fashion Madame de Garderobe and I agree upon. That and wigs.” Belle wrinkled her nose. “Not for you, _ma petite_ , I know.”

“You pull it off so well,” Belle said. “I know I never could.”

“What is more important is that you do not want to. That is the first rule, for me, of _la mode_. Never order a dress you won’t want to wear, and never follow a fashion that doesn’t make you feel beautiful. Now. I’m also guessing you dislike patches?”

“Was it that obvious?”

“Well, you have a good complexion anyway. Most people use patches to hide their pockmarks, and you don’t have those.”

Belle glanced away from Plumette’s face. “No,” she said quietly. “I don’t.”

There was a rustle of skirts as Plumette knelt down beside Belle’s seat. “I lost both my parents to plague when I was seven. That’s when I came here. The master’s mother died only a few months later.”

Belle reached for Plumette’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“There was something I liked,” Plumette continued, “about being in a house that was, for the most part, as sad as I was. I liked feeling understood.” Belle pressed her lips together and nodded. Plumette clicked her tongue and reached out to brush a tear from the other girl’s cheek. “Now, there. It’s what it is.”

Plumette, Belle knew, could be quite direct, but in delicate situations she had a roundabout manner that Belle appreciated. She didn’t pretend it was alright that her parents were gone, that Belle’s mother was gone, that they both knew too well what it was like to be lonely and sad. She just acknowledged that it was.

“So,” said Plumette, standing, “no powder, no patches. I think a bit of rouge on the lips wouldn’t go astray, but what I’m most interested in are the eyes.” She folded her arms and leaned back for a moment, considering. “Yes, definitely the eyes. Eye makeup is usually only found on the stage—you see why Madame de Garderobe loves it, then, and she taught me everything I know.”

“She can be quite…dramatic.”

Plumette let out a peal of laughter. “That’s one word for it. Don’t worry, I know just what to do with you. Simple yet elegant, that’s exactly what you need. You do trust me?” Belle nodded. “ _Excellent_. Close your eyes and stay still for me.”

Belle did as she was told and heard the sound of Plumette unscrewing the cap from a jar. “Will you tell me more of your life after you came here?” she asked. She knew so much, by comparison, about the other members of the staff—Mrs. Potts and her family, Cogsworth and his difficult wife, Garderobe and Cadenza and their romance of operatic proportions. Plumette, much as she was becoming a friend, had remained a bit of a mystery.

“Mrs. Potts took care of me, as she does” Plumette said as Belle felt the swipe of a brush across her eyelid, “and Cogsworth kept promoting me as I grew. Lumière started as a footman when he was fourteen and he quickly became a favorite—with everyone. I was twelve when he arrived and knew immediately he was for me, of course,” Belle could hear the smile in her voice, then felt the brush against her other eye, “although it took a few years for him to realize. But he was always so protective. Kept me well out of the way of the master’s father.”

“I see.”

“He was a difficult man. So was _monsieur le prince_ , when he was younger, of course, but he left the girls of the house alone. This brings back some memories, I must say. I helped with his toilette for every fête—and there were a lot of fêtes, back then.” Belle felt a stream of cool air against her eyelids as Plumette blew gently to dry whatever she’d just painted on. There was a clink of earthware against silver as she returned the first pot to the tray and picked up another. “Oh, how I used to paint his face for those. Blues and blacks and golds, and rouge, and rice powder, _pouf pouf_.”

“Really?” Belle said as she felt another brush sweep away from her eyelids and tap down her cheekbones.

“ _Mais oui_. I do not miss the man he was then, but _à la mode_ , if I may say, he was a work of art. Very dramatic art.”

“Dramatic?” Belle said drily as Plumette moved to her other eye. “Adam? I can hardly imagine.”

Plumette giggled and gave the brush a final tap against Belle’s cheek. “ _Eh_ , _bien_. Open. Mirror.”

Belle turned to look at her reflection and stilled. Plumette had drawn a thin line of black just above her eyelashes, winging gently out past her lids, then swiped gold dust above it, along the same curves, and dabbed the excess at the top of her cheekbones. Paired with the turquoise dress she’d donned for dinner, it made her look so…sophisticated. She positively glowed.

 _Simple yet elegant_. Plumette was a genius, and Belle told her so.

“Finally, someone who recognizes,” she said with a smile. “The smallest bit of rouge for the lips, and we will be finished.” Plumette dabbed on the rouge with a delicate brush and stepped back, admiring her work.

“Oh, _ma princesse_ ,” she said, ignoring the fact that Belle technically didn’t hold that title yet, “you shall outshine them all.”


	2. Chapter 2

Adam stood as Belle entered the dining room, which contained only the two of them for the first time in a week. “You dressed for dinner,” he said.

“You always do,” Belle smiled as she seated herself to his right. “I thought I’d see what all the fuss was about.”

His eyes widened slightly as he saw her face up close. “I see Plumette has been attending you.”

Belle’s voice remained steady, but she lowered her eyes as she placed her napkin in her lap. “She has. What do you think?”

“What do _you_ think?”

“I asked you first.”

“You’ve never needed my opinion to form your own.”

Belle raised her chin and met his eyes. “I think it’s rather magical. Not for every day, but for special occasions. And when I feel like it.”

The corner of Adam’s mouth curved upward and his gaze deepened. “I think it’s exquisite.”

Lumière appeared with food and wine—they often dispensed with the footmen when it was just the two of them—and Belle waited until he retired before saying, “Plumette tells me she used to attend you, as well.”

Adam sighed as he cut into his steak, which he had continued to enjoy on the rare side even after becoming human again. “That she did. She’s quite skilled, and I was a fop.”

“I was wondering,” Belle said carefully, between sips of wine, “if you might…show me. What you look like, with your makeup. It’s just…I’m curious.” Adam’s glance flickered from his food to her face, but he said nothing. “Of course you don’t have to, if you don’t want to be reminded.”

“No,” he said, wiping his mouth. “I don’t mind.”

Belle wasn’t quite sure she believed him.

 

After dinner they made their way to Adam’s rooms in the West Wing. Belle was a bit surprised he’d decided to remain there, considering everything that had happened, but he liked to joke that he needed to sleep as far away from her as possible until they were married.

Although, it occurred to Belle, that probably wasn’t a joke. She was certain that if she didn’t have to walk all the way across a chilly castle to get to his bedroom, she’d be knocking on his door every other night. _Every_ night. The thought of sleeping tangled up with him was too much to resist. He smelled so good, and he was so _warm_ …

“What you are thinking about?” Adam asked.

 _Damn._ He’d caught her staring into the middle distance. “I think I might need to talk to Mrs. Potts about locating more blankets.”

“It’s July. Do you get cold that easily?”

“It’s more of a…weight thing.”

Adam made a low noise in his throat that sounded suspiciously like a growl. Perhaps he was simply trying to clear his throat.

Perhaps not.

He held the door open for her when they reached his suite, then crossed to a chest of drawers that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years.

“The only thing I don’t know is…” Adam trailed into silence as he opened the top drawer and unscrewed a jar that looked very similar to the ones Plumette had appeared with earlier. He dipped his index finger inside. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“What is it?” asked Belle, coming to stand next to him.

“Remember how I said it seems none of us aged while we were transformed?”

Belle nodded. It had come up in an earlier conversation, a day or two after Adam was human again, regarding how old he was.

“Twenty-six, I think?” he’d said. “It’s a bit hard to tell, but Mrs. Potts was just starting to go silver and she isn’t any greyer than she was, and Lumière didn’t have a ruffle out of place when he came back. It’s possible no time has passed at all.”

Belle watched as Adam rubbed the substance—she thought it was rouge—between his fingers. “As fresh as the day Plumette mixed it all those years ago. Plus the month I haven’t touched it since we started aging again.” He was quiet as he stared down at the jar in his hand.

Belle touched him on the shoulder. “You don’t have to humor me. But you at twenty-six now is not you at twenty-six then, no matter what you put on your face. You may look the same, but there’s a world of difference.”

Adam shook his head. “You weren’t there.”

“I’ve spent a great deal  of time with people who were. Do you think Mrs. Potts would lie about something like that? Would Lumière? Adam.” He turned his face to her. “You wouldn’t be here if you were the same man. The magic wouldn’t have worked. The curse would have held. And even if you were human, if you were that man, I wouldn’t have agreed to marry you. I’m very good at turning down marriage proposals.”

Adam gave her a slight smile. “All those village men chasing you.”

“Just an obnoxiously persistent one who got exactly what he deserved.”

The slight smile disappeared as he caught her around the waist and brushed his nose against hers. “I love you. You are my center and my home.”

“I love you too, you thoughtful, kind, dramatic man.”

“What was that last bit?”

“Don’t fight it, you know it’s true.”

Adam set the pot of rouge on the table and used both hands to clasp Belle around the waist and swing her into a low dip before kissing her soundly. Long moments later, when they came up for air and he lifted her upright, he released her waist and said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Belle rolled her eyes as he turned back to the chest. “I don’t have the skill to do my whole face the way Plumette used to, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t want to see it looking back at me in the mirror. However…” He pulled a few pots of colored powder from the open drawer, grabbed a few brushes, and made his way to the mirror that hung over his dresser.

Belle followed and watched him as he licked the tip of a small brush—that was an image she was likely to return to later, she decided—and dipped it in a pot of gold powder, which he swept along his lash line and swirled dramatically past the corner of his eye. He repeated the pattern on the other eye before switching brushes and reaching for another jar, this one full of blue powder. He brushed a perfectly curved line beneath each eye, then added a few streaks of white with a smaller brush.

“There,” he said, turning to her. “Just an approximation, of course.”

She couldn’t stop staring at him.

She’d fallen in love with him for his mind, for his heart, for how much she knew he loved her, but of course it hadn’t escaped her in the last month that her fiancé was a very handsome man. She couldn’t get her fill of looking at him as it was, even when he was tired, or windblown from riding, or sleep-mussed when she caught him in the kitchens past midnight foraging for a snack.

But right now, those swirls of color highlighting the angle of his cheekbones, the curve of his lashes, the deep blue of his eyes…he was utterly captivating.

And he appeared unnerved by her silence. “Do you not—”

“The lips need a bit of color, I think,” said Belle, “but you don’t need rouge for that.” She caught him by the front of his jacket and hauled him down to her. Her mouth was already open when their lips met, and he gladly took the invitation to slide his tongue against hers. She still tasted like wine.

Belle was in love with the way their lips moved together, with the way he let her lead, even as he made her go weak at the knees. He curled one arm around her waist and rested the other hand on her hip as she tilted her head to kiss him more deeply, pressing against him so firmly that she felt him lean backward.

She broke the kiss when the heat that coiled low her in belly—the one she still didn’t completely understand—became nearly too much to bear. Her breathing was heavy, she realized, as was Adam’s.

“Has anyone ever told you,” he said, “that you are frightfully clever?”

“You’re only as clever as the people you learn from,” she replied, standing on tiptoe to kiss the end of his nose. “I’ve had a thought.”

“It’s probably a clever one.”

“Let’s have a dance tomorrow night. Just the household, like we did before. Do you think Cadenza and Madame de Garderobe would be willing to play for us?”

“Cadenza and Garderobe, sharing a bench and making music all night? I think they’d be happier there than if we offered them a six-month paid vacation to Italy.”

Belle smiled and tucked her head beneath Adam’s chin. “We could invite Lumière and Plumette to dress and join us. My father’s coming out to visit tomorrow and you know he loves a dance.”

“I think it sounds perfect.”

“And I perhaps I can ask Plumette to help me again. Do you think you would…?”

She felt his arms clasp around her. “Anything for you, my dear.”

 

They danced the next night in the sparkling ballroom. Belle wore midnight blue; Plumette had painted her eyes with black and silver. Adam's coat was black with silver spangles, and he'd made up his face the same as the night before. Plumette had opted for her customary white, and Lumière, a new suit of gold that Adam had gifted him for his years of service—both as human and as candlestick. The two couples looked as though day and night had come together and were whirling around the dance floor. Belle didn’t think she’d ever seen Cadenza and Madame de Garderobe looking happier or more in love. Even Mrs. Potts had decided to grace them with her presence, setting up tea and biscuits on one side of the room, where she sat with Chip on her lap, chatting quietly with Maurice and Mr. Potts, who had moved into the castle a few weeks before. He didn’t like being separated from his wife and son any more than necessary after years of being unable to remember them.

Belle had grown to love the minuet, finding herself mesmerized by Adam’s grace in even the smallest movements. The moment where they held their hands towards each other, wrists crossed, fingers brushing, was enough to make her breathless.

She curtsied deeply when the dance concluded, keenly aware of the flush in her cheeks, and rose to see her father striding toward them.

“Belle, my dear,” he said, “since your prince is such a fine dancer, shall we teach him some branles so he can dance in Villeneuve come May Day?”

“That’s nearly a year away, Papa,” Belle laughed.

“All the more time for him to practice,” said Maurice.

Adam smiled and bowed in an exaggerated fashion. “It would be my honor, sir.”

“Come come, that will never do,” Maurice said, waving for him to stand straight. “Monsieur Lumière! Mademoiselle Plumette! Have you much experience with a good country branle?”

“Indeed, monsieur,” said Lumière, “Plumette and I have snuck away to celebrate _la f_ _ête de mai_ every year since I was eighteen.” He gave a muffled “Oof!” as Plumette smacked him with her fan.

Adam narrowed his eyes in an expression of mock disgust. “That explains so much.”

“Step aside, _monsieur le prince_ ,” said Maurice, “and we will show you how your average French peasant passes a spring morning in the village square.”

“Or a winter night on a tavern table,” Plumette muttered.

“You’re a city man, Papa,” Belle reminded her father.

“City men dance during festivals too, Belle. Now, Signore Cadenza, if you would. One, two, and we’re off!”

 

After half an hour of jumping and stamping with her father, Lumière, Plumette, and Adam, who was quite the fast learner, Belle was utterly exhausted. Once she bid everyone goodnight and swiped one last biscuit, Adam escorted her out. He’d expected they’d part ways at the top of the staircase, but Belle refused to let go of his hand as he headed toward the West Wing.

“What are you about?” he asked with the raise of an eyebrow.

“I don’t suppose I could sleep with you tonight.”

There was a distinct ringing in Adam’s ears, which he suspected was caused by his ability to reason flying completely out of his brain.

“I do just mean sleeping,” Belle clarified. “I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. I can’t _stop_ thinking about it.”

Adam swallowed. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“I never feel safer than when I’m around you.”

That got him instantly. He was planning to dedicate the rest of his life—hell, he already had—to keep and make her feel safe.

He sighed the _I-know-you-saved-my-life-but-I-swear-one-day-you’ll-kill-me_ sigh she was coming to know quite well and caught his hand in hers. “Come on, then.”

Once they were in his room, he led her to the wash basin and handed her a linen towel. “First thing’s first,” he said pouring water into the bowl, “wash your face with this. It’s elderflower water, keeps the skin from getting irritated by the powder.” He grabbed a towel for himself and they rinsed their faces together. He found the whole thing terribly domestic, the kind of sweet, everyday scene he was looking forward to repeating every day for years. For the rest of their lives.

“I’m sure I’ve got a spare night shirt somewhere,” Adam said as he rifled through drawers. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking, agreeing to sleep next to her with nothing but two layers of linen between them. Now that she was here, though, it would take an army and an order from King Louis XV himself to make him let her go. “Here we are.” He handed her the nightshirt and turned to change behind his dressing screen, but she took his arm to stop him.

“Laces,” she explained, unfastening the long jacket she wore and revealing the laces that wove up the back of her gown. He tried to stop his hands from shaking as he loosened them, then darted to the other side of the room as fast as he could, disappearing behind the screen.

He really hoped her stays laced up the front.

Apparently they did, because when he peeked out at her he found she was already curled in his bed, half-asleep already.

She looked perfect. She belonged there.

Soon she would be there forever, with him every night, side by side.

He slid beneath the covers with her, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her, but not quite close enough to touch.

“Why are you all the way over there?” she asked, evidently considering two inches of space to be as good as a chasm.

“That’s an excellent question to which I don’t have a good answer.”

Belle rolled onto her stomach and flopped an arm over his waist. So much for trying to be chivalrous.

Then again, Belle was very fond of reminding him that chivalry was a practice founded on elevating women so high that they became inhuman and voiceless, and was therefore a system she was unenthusiastic about.

She nuzzled her nose against his shoulder and mumbled, “You smell good.”

Her breathing evened out, and she was asleep before he could think of what to say.

 _You smell good too_ seemed obvious. So did _Thank you for saving my soul_. _And also for agreeing to marry me_. There was _I can’t wait to go dancing on May Day and show those small-minded villagers how beautiful you are_. And, as always, _I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you._

She already knew it, of course.

He’d tell her in the morning anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> I have tried to do as much research as one can do via Google on eighteenth century cosmetics. All errors are mine, of course. I've been able to spend slightly less time on clothing details--I know the accuracy of the film itself is rather up for debate (but it's so pretty I don't caaaaaaare), but there's just so much information out there that I haven't had time to become an internet-article-expert in yet. (Knowing myself, though, I'll get there soon.) Feel free to knock on my comments door and correct any grievous errors.


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